


Soldier holding his Detective

by MutedSilence



Series: The Soldier and his Detective [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crime scene but not casefic, Emotional, Emotional Sherlock Holmes, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Protective Siblings, mystrade, papa lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:59:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27650351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MutedSilence/pseuds/MutedSilence
Summary: This is the third part of the Soldier and his Detective series
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Soldier and his Detective [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2003191
Comments: 30
Kudos: 82





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock woke in his brother's spare room. The door was open. Through it he could see Mycroft and Greg in bed across the hall. The spare room had been arranged a long time ago for Sherlock's danger nights. It was eight in the morning. Sherlock grabbed his phone when he remembered the text John had sent early that morning. He sat looking at it. He already had it committed to memory, but it was nice to hold the words in his hands. 

**We found someone yesterday. We were too late. Sami prayed for him. I'm fine. I love you.**

"I love you too, John." He lifted himself out of bed. Moving towards the kitchen. He went about making breakfast for all three of them. He found some bacon at the bottom of the fridge and some eggs in a basket on the side. He made sure that he was loud. Enough to wake Greg and Mycroft, but not enough to startle them. They would worry if they woke without being able to see Sherlock. He placed the frying pan on the hob with more force than necessary. As he cooked he heard the two men shuffling behind him. 

"How are you this morning, Sherlock?" He flipped the food and he took a moment. "Better. I mean… I'm alright." He nods to no one in particular, placing some food onto a plate and handing it over to Greg. Mycroft throws some bread into the toaster and moves to pick up more plates for Sherlock. Sherlock hands the food to Mycroft as he begins making his own. Mycroft picks up another egg and slice of bacon when he sees the amount Sherlock is cooking. He adds them to the pan over his brother's shoulder and sits with Greg. Once his food is done, Greg leaves to get ready for work. They still had no leads. 

* * *

Sherlock spent the day with his brother. Mycroft had been working in his home office and Sherlock was going over Greg's case notes on the other side of the office. They worked in companionable silence. 

Sherlock rose to make tea for them both. As he waited for the kettle he took out his phone. He looked over his message. He stood in the kitchen, his thumb rubbing the side of his phone as he read the messages John had sent. He scrolled through and read each one. starting from the first, **I'd love to stay the week <3 John.** He kept reading. Hearing John's voice in each word he read. 

He didn't know how long he had been standing there, but Mycroft had come to find him and the kettle had gone cold. Sherlock put the kettle back on and gave a weak smile to his brother. It was then that he realised his face was wet. Mycroft didn't say anything. And for that, Sherlock was grateful. They made the tea together and went back into the office. As Mycroft drank his, Sherlock sat and inhaled the scent. 

At around three in the afternoon, Mycroft stood and turned to Sherlock, "I have to go to the office. Some kind of emergency, but know that if you need me, I will come straight back." Sherlock thanked him for this. They had a rocky relationship. They fought constantly. Going against the other just for fun. When it came to the important stuff, they would drop anything to help the other. It was their unsaid agreement. Come to the others aid in time of need. Although, it always seemed to be Mycroft helping Sherlock. When he was a child, Mycroft would scare away any bullies. When he was a teen, Mycroft fought against the dealers. Now he was an adult, Mycroft fought against the eventual broken heart. Sherlock was left in Mycroft's home. 

* * *

Sherlock had become absorbed into the data.  _ Missing something. What? What is it?  _ It was driving him crazy. The personal office had become littered with undrunk tea. Sherlock had been filling the room with the smell since Mycroft had left. 

His head lifted from the depths of the file when the office door opened. Lestrade stood in the doorway, panting slightly. "We've got another one." Both of them raced out of the office and climbed into the car. Lestrade sped down to the scene. The sun had begun to set. The winter chill hit them as they made their way to the scene. 

The area had been taped off. Police patrolled the area as people crowded to see what was happening. They made their way to the flashing lights. An officer lifted the tape for them to walk under. Sherlock made his way to the body. Looking over every detail he could find on the way. They needed to catch this killer. Sherlock began to scan the area. He needed to gather as much data as possible. He paced and paced as Lestrade just watched on. He walked to the outer edges of the scene, close to the spectators. He slowly made his way towards the body. Still circling the area. He took pictures of anything that could possibly look out of place. 

He stood next to Lestrade. "It doesn't make sense. How can there be nothing? I can't find any evidence. It's like they just dumped the body here." Both he and Lestrade looked up at each other.  _ Was that it? _ Shaking the thought from his mind he said, "No. Stupid. There are no signs of the body being moved. Must have been some other way." He was rambling in hushed tones to himself as he looked at the area around the body. He had yet to look at the body, he didn't need to. Not yet at least. 

Donovan had made her way over to them. She pursed her lips at the sight of Sherlock. "Freak," Sherlock and Lestrade both turn towards the sound of the voice. "What are you doing here? Come to see the man you killed?" Sherlock took a deep breath to calm himself and bent down. He began to examine the body. Anything to distract him from her. The wittering of Donovan still loud over the sounds of the crime scene. "Do you have an alibi? Well, a freak like you is only here to get off. Going to write about it when you get home? Keep a record?" Sherlock stood and spun to face her. Stepping closer to her so he could read her better. His eyes scanning over her body.  _ Knees. Day old clothes. She's sleeping with someone. Who? Casting glances around. Eyes focus… on… Ah- Sleeping with Officer Micheals. Anderson will not be happy.  _

He opens his mouth to reply when his phone begins to buzz. He pulls it out of his pocket and sees the caller ID

**Mycroft**

"What do you want, I'm busy?"

"Sherlock I need you to stay calm."

"Why? I don't have time for this. I'm at a crime scene."

"Sherlock," His voice was uncharacteristically soft as he said the name. 

"Mycie?" 

"There's been an accident. John got shot…" 

The phone slipped from Sherlock's grasp as he fell to his knees. The world began to spin. His head became heavy. He was going to throw up as soon as he could feel his body again. Distantly he heard the sounds of Donovan laughing, Lestrade calling his name, and other officers babbling. He couldn't take it. They didn't matter. He could hear the tinny voice of his brother coming from the phone. "Sherlock, talk to me." He felt the grip of Lestrade on his arms. He felt his head sway from side to side. He heard the laughing and the voices. All of them mix to overpower his brain. The noise is becoming too much. The hands on his arms are too hot. Too restricting. He raised his shaking hands to his ears. Bringing his knees to his chest. His eyes closing so tightly that all he saw were white spots. 

He could still hear them. The small voice through the phone, the laughing, the talking, the blood pumping through his veins, the outside world, birds, the wind. It was too much. He couldn't control it. He couldn't tell you when he had begun to cry. Or when he had begun to rock. Or even when he had begun to scream. But he did. All noise around him stopped. He could still hear it. He could hear John's voice, talking in his ear in the early morning. He could hear John's light snores from beside him. He could hear John's heart beating. His gentle breaths. His laugh. John. John. John. 

He could hear his brother shouting over the sound of John.  _ How did he break through? _ He opened his eyes. Mycroft was running across the scene towards them. Mycroft ran to be by his side. Sherlock had only seen him run when they were young. Greg had never seen him run. And here he was, running in a three-piece suit and kneeling on the floor to hold his brother. Sherlock's hands stayed on his ears, but the scream had stopped. His rocking, less severe. The tears, still flowing. 

Mycroft tried to get Sherlock to stand. Each attempt was met with Sherlock's body falling limp. Greg moved to help. They took him to the awaiting black car. One man on either side, dragging him along. Lestrade began to shout orders to his team. They were all too shocked to hear him. In the car, Sherlock curled further into a ball and didn't move. His hands remained on his ears as he listened to the sweet sounds of John. 


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft and Greg helped guide Sherlock into his flat. His body was limp against theirs. His hands were still on his ears. Holding onto his ears so tight you'd think he was scared the voices would fall out from them. They place him carefully on his sofa. Mycroft sits on the edge of the coffee table, looking over at his brother. His hand rubbing across his face. Greg stood by the door, panting, watching. He steps forward, "My, I have to get to the scene. I- I can't help now," Mycroft nods into his hand. He gave a stiff inhale as he raised his head to Greg. "Call me. Anything. I'll be here." He steps forward to plant a kiss in Mycroft's hair and turns to Sherlock. He looks the man over before leaving the flat. 

Sherlock's tears had stopped flowing. However, his breathing was still irregular. His death grip on his ears had begun to lessen. His eyes were bright red, his face had become puffy. His trembling had stopped. He sat completely still. Mycroft looked him over and noticed that not a single part of him was moving, only his eyelids as they slowly dropped. Sherlock's eyes remained closed, the rising in his chest - barely there. 

His hands slipped from his head, landing with a soft thud beside him. He took a deep inhale and darted across the room. Mycroft startled at the sudden movement. Sherlock rushed past, leaving Mycroft to fall to his feet in an attempt to follow. Sherlock had swung open the door and was running down the stairs. Mycroft struggled to keep up with him. Sherlock had become a ball of energy as he burst through the front door. 

Mycroft followed Sherlock to Speedy's. They stood in the queue. Sherlock was still sniffling quietly. His face is still puffy. Mycroft looked over at him over, he didn't care. They were at the front of the queue and Sherlock opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Blinking rapidly he looked over the cakes they had, his mouth opening and closing. No sound breaking through. The other patrons became irritated. It was getting late. The cafe would be closing soon. The man behind the counter looked at Sherlock with curiosity. He knew Sherlock, he just didn't know why he wouldn't speak. To be fair - neither did Sherlock. 

Mycroft looked over at his brother. He saw the desperation on plain display. Sherlock was pushed to the side as Mycroft slid in front of the counter. "Blueberry muffins?" Sherlock looked at him. His mouth opening again as he gave a nod. "We'll take two. I'll pay for you to make a fresh batch and bring them upstairs as well." They gave Mycroft an odd look before placing the muffins on the counter. Sherlock took them and practically flew out of the main door, leaving Mycroft to pay. 

* * *

Sherlock had locked himself in his room. He had taken the fresh muffins with him and made a pot of tea. He curled in his bed. The cologne bottle resting under his pillow. There came a knock on the door. It was quiet and yet it still managed to echo through the room. Sherlock didn't move. Another knock. Sherlock listened to the huff from the other side of the door as he laid burrowed in bed. The joining bathroom door opened and Mycroft stepped through, looking surprised that it actually worked. 

The room was dark and smelt like tea and cakes. Mycroft moved through the room to sit next to his brother. Sherlock pulled the blanket over his head as the bed dipped beside him. "Sherlock? He'll be alright. I've got tabs on him. He's been shot, but John will pull through. He promised, remember?" His voice was comforting and soft. A quality Sherlock hadn't heard since their youth. He turned to face Mycroft. He still didn't speak. Everything he needed to say, could be seen in his eyes. Mycroft rests his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. 

* * *

Greg made his way to Baker Street as soon as work would allow, which was really, pretty late. So he was surprised when Mrs Hudson answered the door. His questions died on his tongue when he heard a bang from above and the screaming of certain brothers. Mrs Hudson actually looked relieved to see Greg at the door, "Oh, dear, hello. He's not doing too well," She ushered him into the house and closed the door behind him. "He's been in a mood. I do hope Mycroft can bring John home for a bit," She began to pull him towards her flat. "They're so good for each other. He gets destructive when he's bored, texting and calling John seems to help that. I guess John's been busy lately. Can you take these up?" She hands over a tray of muffins. Greg stands for a moment, trying to wrap his head around everything he had just heard.  _ She doesn't know _ . 

He makes his way up the stairs. Where the shouting grows louder - until it just stops when Greg gets to the door. He opens the door to see the wreckage that was once a living space. Ripped files were thrown around the room. Broken dishes lying across the floor. Tea cups littering any flat surface. Blueberry muffins spread between them. His gaze lifted to the men. They were standing apart. Mycroft stood in just a shirt and his trousers, the shirt was untucked, his hair a mess. Sherlock stood facing half way between them. He had a grey top on and too short joggers. Then he saw it. In one hand was a bottle of cologne, in the other hand was a gun. 

Greg stepped further into the flat. Moving with slow calculated actions. He had been in situations like this before. He just never thought SHerlock would be on the other side. Sherlock raises the bottle and sprays. Taking a deep breath, he raises the gun and takes a shot at the wall. Both Greg and Mycroft jump and shout at Sherlock. In response, Sherlock took another inhale and dropped onto his chair. Greg moved forward and took the gun from Sherlock's weak grip. His eyes fell shut as his breathing became controlled and deep. Mycroft took Greg outside to talk on the stairs. 

"What the hell is happening? I should be arresting him right now." Greg was angry. Feeling conflicted between his job and his personal life. "And I thank you for not, Gregory." Greg finally got a good look at his boyfriend. His usual pristine manner had been completely destroyed. His eyes were tired. He fought back a yawn. Greg took hold of Mycroft's hands. "What is he doing?" Mycroft casts a glance at the closed door. "He's making it smell like John. That's what I can assume," His voice became a whisper and Greg had to move closer to hear. "John should be fine. He's on his way to Birmingham now. He hasn't woken. I can't tell him yet. He'll demand to see John as soon as possible. If he is like this in a hospital…" He let the sentence hang, leaving Greg to fill in the rest. 

They walk back into the room. Sherlock had curled himself into the red armchair. The chair had remained untouched since John's departure. They could hear the soft snores coming from the chair. With a look, both men started to clean the room. Working as silently as they could. Together they worked so they would be ready for whatever the next day held. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if you think I should add particular tags, or if I've made a mistake somewhere.   
> Hope you're enjoying the series!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been very distracted lately. I started to write this the other day and I took a break. As a break I decided to draw a character from a book I like (Not Sherlock). I drew the face and got the bright idea to paint it on my wall. Then I thought that I should draw/paint the entire body. So that's sort of what I did. For 2 days.   
> Anyway, I hope you like this. It's mainly a filler. I'm starting the next one earlier than usual so I can't get distracted again XD

Sherlock woke with a stiff neck and dead legs. His head was resting on the arm of John's chair. He pushed himself up to straighten the kinks in his back. Mycroft and Greg were laying on the sofa. Greg had curled up above Mycroft, both in a deep sleep. The flat was back in working order. It taunted him.  _ It can't look like this. It can't be like normal, not now.  _

Sherlock's mind had finally been quiet when he fell asleep. His mind was too chaotic. John would be fine. He knew that. If only someone would tell his brain. Sherlock's mind was craving chaos. The room didn't smell right. The smell of Mycroft, Greg and Sherlock filled it. Crowding Sherlock, pushing him down, swirling around his nose. Panic began to rise in his chest again. Air escaping his lungs in quick succession. 

Before he could become lost in his own mind, a phone's shrill noise filled the flat. Mycroft shifted and raised the offending device to his ear, "Yes, what? No… Right… Yes keep them busy… I'll be there." He hung up and moved to wake the unconscious man resting on him. Sherlock watched on, forgotten, as the men woke. "I have to go to the office. You'll be okay?" Greg gave a slow nod as an overpowering yawn took over. Mycroft had slipped from the flat before Greg had completely woken. Sherlock rose to make coffee and tea. 

* * *

Neither man moved all morning. Sherlock spent the morning filling the flat with the smell of tea, cologne, and muffins. He worked to create the distinct smell of gunpowder to no avail. Mycroft had taken the gun with him. Sherlock tried to replace it with the smell of antiseptic, but it just wasn't right. Greg watched over him. He was used to Sherlock's idiosyncrasies, so there he sat. He picked up the case files Sherlock had littered the night before, and tried to work. 

They had both been sat in their own worlds until they were pulled to the surface by Greg's phone. That was the second time Sherlock had been distracted by a phone. He sprayed the cologne again, taking another deep breath. He went back to the John in his mind. That John didn't do much. Well, he didn't need to. All Sherlock wanted was to hold him. 

He was dragged from his mind to see Greg in front of him, trying to get his attention. "Sherlock! There's another one. Come on." Sherlock turned and burrowed further into John's chair.  _ Leave me alone. _ He still had yet to speak to them. It was just too much effort now. He fell back into John's awaiting arms. Content to stay there forever. "Sherlock! He's still out there. Some poor bastard was just killed…" Sherlock heard the rough exhale from ahead of him. "I can't just leave you here alone."  _ I don't care.  _ He nuzzles his nose into John's neck.  _ I want John.  _ He brings the nearby mug to his nose. His eyes screwed shut.  _ John would find whatever I missed. He'd find the killer.  _ His arms wrap tighter around John.  _ Come home and solve the case, John.  _ John holds him.  _ You know I can't 'Lock. I want to, but I'm stuck here.  _ The fingers run through his hair.  _ IT'S NOT THE SAME.  _

His eyes flew open. The input was all wrong. The John in his mind didn't hold him with the same warmth John did. He was left feeling hollow and cold. Sherlock's eyes adjusted and he noticed Greg had gone. Across from him sat Mrs Hudson. She was sitting in his chair nursing a cup of tea.  _ How long had he been in his mind? _ Mrs Hudson had an expression Sherlock couldn't decipher. With a great heave, he got up and went to bed. 

* * *

Mrs Hudson had been catching up on the last episode of Eastenders when a knock came at her door. She opened it to see the nice detective inspector who always seemed to be with one of the Holmes boys, if not both. She invited him in and walked into her kitchen before he could protest. He stood rather awkwardly. "Want a cuppa, love?" She moved to flick on the kettle. 

"No, no it's okay. Listen. I don't want to ask, but can you just sit with Sherlock? He needs someone to watch him. John got hurt. He's fine, it's just trying to get him to listen. Don't mention John. Just sit. He hasn't spoken a word." She walked over to him and placed her hand on his arm. She turned off her show -  _ can watch that later -  _ and moved back to the man. She made her way upstairs as the DI left, sending thanks her way. 

Sherlock had been curled into the red chair when she got to his flat. His eyes were shut tight. His face turned into the back of the chair. Her heart lurched. She made herself a cup of tea as well as Sherlock. He moved as she sat. Smelling the tea she had just placed. Making it slosh over the sides as he placed it back down. She was enjoying the peace, even if it hurt to see him like that. Then, he sat up with a start and left. Slamming his door and leaving her alone in his flat. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like it. This one is a longer chapter.

There were too many lights and sounds. They surrounded him. Pulling him from his hazy sleep. His head felt like it would combust. His mouth held a metallic taste. His eyes were stuck.  _ Had he spent the night drinking? _ Taking a deep breath, he tried to relax. Tried to figure out why he felt so sick, so lost, so empty, so… so… 

So dead. 

_Focus! For God sake, focus!_ _Where am I?_ He strained to open his eyes. His eyelashes covering the blurred outside in prison like bars. He took a deep breath. He had to move. He knew that much. He tried to move his arms. _Can't stay here._ The arms might as well have been connected to the bed for all they moved. His mouth was dry - _how long since I last drank? -_ lips cracking in the effort to part them. He felt himself slipping. Falling back into his dream state. 

A rhythmic beeping began to pierce through his ears. The steady beep crept to an alarming ring. Singular sounds mixing to create one shrill noise. It filled his mind. Crowding all his senses. Hands grab onto his arm, pulling and tugging at his lifeless body as he feels himself falling into the dark. He can feel the hands sticking needles into his arm. The pillows from beneath, ripped away and replaced with more grappling hands. He was split between the claws of death and the vice like grip of the living.  _ Can't they stop tugging and leave me? _

* * *

He became aware of himself again. This time the beeping was steady and distant, the hands had disappeared. A flame spread through his chest. Burning a path from his chest to his head. The light behind his eyelids casting a furious red over his pupils. He strained to move. Instincts kicking in.  _ Get up. Go. Where? Doesn't matter. Just go. _ His breathing hitches as he tries moving. A groan passing his broken lips as the fire spread further through his body. His eyes manage to open slightly, revealing a blurred room. 

A warm hand rests on his shoulder. Rubbing. Soothing. Grounding him, unlike the hands from before. He rests back, allowing the hand to guide him. "Just relax. It's okay. Rest."  _ What is that? That voice. Mycroft? _ He lays down against the pillows. A hand grabs at his arm as Mycroft withdraws his. The hand is cold in comparison, he fights. As much as he can, he fights the hand. Pulling his arm tighter to his body, turning it away. The warm hand comes back. Rubbing circles into his shoulder.  _ It hurts _ , he tries to Mycroft.  _ They're cold. It hurts me.  _

"Just let go. I'm not leaving, okay?" He takes a deep breath, a hot tear runs down his cheek. Mycroft's hand pulls back again.  _ No, Mycroft. It hurts. They'll hurt me. _ He tries to say again, another tear slipping from the pain. All that comes out is a small pathetic whimper. "I won't leave you. Let them work. I know, you're in pain, they'll fix it," His focus is on Mycroft's voice. He lets the cold fingers wrap around his wrist. "Focus on me. You're doing great," A needle pierces his skin. A cold flush filling his veins. "Go to sleep. I'll wait. I promise." The fingers release him and he falls back to the darkness. 

* * *

He wakes again. The lights behind his eyelids have faded. Instead the light seems to be concentrated to the right, only small, hardly there. He tries again. Pulling his eyes open. They move more willingly this time. His vision slowly comes back. Blinking away the blurred images. He tries to turn his head towards the light. The room is in near darkness save for that light. His head rolls with great effort. Mycroft was sitting at his side. Book in hand, eyes on the page, small lamp revealing the words. "My…" He croaks. The sound barely a whisper. It was all it took. The man looks up with a start. He lets the book drop to the floor. His hand moving back to the shoulder. 

"Myc…" The hand rubs softly. He gives up trying to speak. The pain had faded a lot, but he was exhausted. Mycroft took a deep breath before he spoke, "You are on very strong medication. You really are stupid, you know that right?" The words are spoken without venom, a strange fondness in the smile that pulls at his mouth. "Myc… Home." Mycroft sits back. He pulls out his phone from his jacket. Fingers soaring across the screen, "I'll get you home as soon as I can. I need you to rest for me, okay? Can you do that? I will take care of everything." Following the strangely comforting words of Mycroft Holmes, he closes his eyes. Surrendering his control -  _ not like he had any _ \- and slipping to the darkness once again. 

* * *

Hushed voices in the room drag him to the light again. He opens his eyes, head still on the side. The chair is empty. Panic rising in his chest at an alarming rate, "My… My- Mycie." The words come out in a desperate plea. A warm hand is placed on his leg, "It's okay. I'm here." He turns his head slowly to the sounds. Mycroft stood at the foot of his bed with a woman in a white coat.  _ Doctor, obvious. _ The fog that had been filling his head, slowly cleared as he looked around the room. 

Still hidden in darkness, the room was private, spacious. It looked expensive.  _ Of course it's expensive, with Mycroft at your feet.  _ He raises his arm to his face. Mycroft smiles at him then continues to speak to the doctor. The doctor looks towards him then leaves the room. The light switch flicking on as he leaves. "I'll take you home," All attention focused on Mycroft. "But, you need to be able to stand on your own. Come on, John. Lean on me, I'll help." 

The blankets were pulled back from his legs. He tried to lift his head from the pillow. A hand came to rest behind his head, helping to raise him and yet not pushing. Just supporting. He looked down at himself for the first time. His left arm was bandaged and attached to his chest. All feeling in the arm was lost. Sensing John's panic, Mycroft placed his free hand on his leg. Rubbing circles into his thigh to help ground him. John screws his eyes shut,  _ soldier. _

Together they got John to his feet. Mycroft had a firm hold on him. John worked on his breathing. "All you have to do is walk to the door alone. I managed to pull some strings. You shouldn't be leaving." John looked towards Mycroft. He no longer saw the cold iceman, but a loving brother. A man who cares so much for his brother that he is willing to help said brother's boyfriend. Well, not only help, provide care and comfort even though they are practically strangers. All of their previous exchanges had been hostile. But now, in this room, it was like they had become family. The thought startled John. He had to move. 

As he stepped forward a sharp pain shot through his leg. Mycroft caught him as he began to fall. "My… leg." He croaked out. Mycroft sat him in the vacant chair, passing him a cup of water. John drains the cup and moves to stand again. The pain screaming through his body.  _ Soldier. _ He pushes on. Taking slow and steady steps on shaking legs. Mycroft stood close to his side, arms ready to catch him if he should fall. The pain continues to shoot through his leg, but he keeps moving.  _ You're a soldier, damn it, you keep going. To hell with what happens to you. _ His hand reaches the handle. "Take me home." 

* * *

John is sitting in Mycroft's black car. They had been driving for almost three hours. The ride had been silent. John had a hospital issue cane in his hand. After he dressed, Mycroft had handed it to him so he could walk without much aid. He had been prescribed strong painkillers and express instructions from Mycroft, to keep them away from Sherlock. They pulled up at Baker Street and for the first time that ride, Mycroft spoke to him, "Wait here. He's been… sensitive. I'll go and check before you follow." John watched him disappear through the door. 

John was only left alone for five minutes when the door opened again. "He's asleep. Mrs Hudson was in there watching television. It's up to you what you do." John thought for a moment before he gave a nod and moved out of the car. He walked up the stairs at an agonisingly slow pace. Mycroft followed behind. He stopped in the doorway and turned to Mycroft. In a low voice he spoke, "Thank you. I- I really mean it. For everything. You're a great brother." 

Mycroft seemed to go offline at that. Shock filled his features for a moment before he gave a nod. He left John.  _ Finally home.  _ Before he could well up, John made his way to the bedroom. Sherlock was curled up on his side. John's heart gave a lurch. He looked on the floor for any clothes the mad man hadn't put away. He slowly dressed. The familiar scent hit him and left him sniffing back the oncoming tears. Carefully, John pulled back the covers and slipped into the bed. Still fast asleep, Sherlock curled into his side.  _ It's all fine now, I'm home.  _


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was slightly worried as on my AO3 it says I only have 3 chapters on this one. But my google docs says 5 Chapters. I thought I had somehow missed a chapter.  
> Anyway, I think I've sorted it (??)  
> Hope you enjoy!

John woke with a pain in his shoulder, he needed his medication. Sherlock was still asleep, curled into his right side. John tried to think where he left the small paper prescription bag he was given.  _ Walking through the flat - Got to the bedroom - Looked at Sherlock - Placed cane and bag down - Changed into pajamas from the floor - Climbed in with Sherlock. _ He looked towards the bedside table. There it was. The white bag sitting out of arm's reach. Mocking him. 

He looked down at Sherlock. There were deep black sacks under his eyes, his face seemed to have sunken.  _ When did he last eat? The flat was full of cakes, surely he ate some? _ The pain in his shoulder was getting worse. With his other hand, he began to rub Sherlock's back. He stirred and nuzzled down further into John's chest.  _ He looks so precious, if my shoulder wasn't shot to shit I'd never move. _

John places soft kisses to Sherlock's face. The face he had dreamt of for months. Still asleep, Sherlock tilted his head to accept the small kisses. John kept at it, moving to any part of his face he could reach. Sherlock was mumbling under his breath, something unintelligible. John smiled at this and placed another kiss. Each one more firm than the last. Sherlock made small kissing noises to the air around in an attempt to give them back.

Mid-air-kiss Sherlock stops and his whole body seems to tense. John moves back slightly, looking down at his boyfriend lovingly. Sherlock slowly opens his eyes to look at who woke him. John's smile spreads across his cheeks, growing at a rate that would alarm even the Cheshire cat. Sherlock stares back up at him. His features were frozen in shock. "Sorry love, I can't reach my pain killers." He gives a grimace at the still present pain in his shoulder and his terrible choice for first topic home. 

Sherlock blinks repeatedly and takes a deep breath. His mouth opening and closing as he tries to understand. He is sat up, one hand propped on John's chest and the other hand running through the curls on his nape. He shakes his head and shoots out of bed. Leaving John with a sudden chill from the outside air. Swirling when he lands on the floor, hand still scratching at the back of his neck. He scans the area then grabs the white bag on his bedside table. Climbing back into the bed hesitantly, he hands John the bag and the ever present water from the bedside table. Before John could finish swallowing the pills, Sherlock had taken them and placed them back. Then took the water when John was finished. 

He was sitting on the bed, cross legged, looking at John. Assessing, analysing, deducing. "John?"  _ He looks so young.  _ John holds out this hand for Sherlock to take. He takes it as a tear rolls down his cheek. John reaches forward to wipe it away, letting his own tear fall to the bed sheets below. "You're home." His voice hitches at that. John's heart lets out a painful cry. He reaches forward to take hold of Sherlock. They hold each other and press kisses into the other's skin. Sherlock inspects John's injury when his shock fades. They fall asleep in each other's arms. 

* * *

With great help, John moved into the living room. Sherlock sat with him and explained his way through the files on the case he was working. Well, he hadn't been working on it since John's injury, but Lestrade had given him all the details when he could. They spent the day uninterrupted and John couldn't help but think that was due to Mycroft. John couldn't stop feeling just a little… well, useless. Sherlock had been whizzing around the flat helping John with anything and everything. He wouldn't allow John to move from his chair. He understood. He really understood. Doesn't stop him feeling like a hindrance though. 

The next day they sat in similar positions. They had settled for another day of going over case notes. "John?" He looks up from the open file on his lap. Sherlock was stood at the side of his chair. He stood tall, but his wringing hands gave him away. "Graham texted. He said that if you feel up to it, we could… uh, go and see, um…" He took a deep breath. John sat by, waiting patiently. "Do you want to come to a crime scene with me?" A faint smile pulled at John's lips. It quickly vanished when Sherlock quickly added, "You don't have to, It's only if you want to, I don't have to. I know you're getting bored and-" John cut him off "Sherlock! I would love to solve crimes with you. Just don't run off. I can't follow." The smile that spread across Sherlock's face was blinding. He swept in to give John a kiss, then they got ready. 

That's how John found himself in the back of a cab with a buzzing consulting detective. 

* * *

This was another in the long string of murders. Sherlock was giddy. He had missed the last few. Although, he had John now. John had read through all the case notes and Sherlock knew he would be an asset. They climbed out of the cab at St Barts and made their way to the DI. 

This time a man had been stabbed fifteen times. However, he had survived the initial attack. He made his way to the hospital. Alas, he had died right there, in the reception. The hospital reception had been closed off. All patients were redirected while the police flooded the waiting area. The body had been left where he fell. Sherlock led John from the cab to the entrance where he held the police tape up. 

"Uh, no. I don't think so, Holmes." The nasally voice of Anderson sounded through the scene, disrupting the happy atmosphere the two men held. Sherlock and John turned to see Anderson walking towards them. An air of smugness flowing from his pores. Donovan could be seen following him as if she was his unwanted, one-person entourage. Sherlock still held the tape in his hands between him and John. 

"What are you doing here, freak? Huh? Thought you were having some sort of breakdown. Who's this?" He pointed at John. Only just noticing the man stood there. Sherlock could feel John bristling beside him. Sherlock thrust the tape higher in a silent plea for John to let it drop and keep walking. John seemed to understand and he passed under. They walked through to the hospital entrance. 

Lestrade met them by the body, "John! You're out and about? Didn't expect to see you." John watched as Sherlock began to circle the body. He stepped towards Lestrade and clapped him on the shoulder, "Greg! You alright? I believe you owe me a pint at some point." Lestrade gave a laugh and was about to reply when Sherlock piped up over the hum of the police, "You can't drink with your pills. I'll schedule you in for a week after the pain is gone." John rolled his eyes at the comment and Greg's laughter grew. "Yes. Thank you, Sherlock. I am a doctor, remember?" Sherlock just gave a shrug and carried on examining the body. 

John had a look around the scene. They had drawn a crowd.  _ Classic Brits, always rubberneckin'.  _ Most of the onlookers didn't stay long. You couldn't see much from over there. There was one man. He seemed to find it incredibly fascinating. It sent a shiver down John's spine. He couldn't make out much from the distance and the man's face was covered in a hood. "Clothes are torn, see? Here… and here. Get Molly to check him out. I don't get it. I can't find anything." Sherlock stood and looked between John and Lestrade. A deep frown forming on his forehead. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (***) There is some detail of a dead body in this which I indicated with the asterisks (***) You can skip it. Doesn't make much difference to the story. It's confined to only one paragraph.

That night Sherlock sat in the bed beside John. The bedside lamp was on next to Sherlock. John was laying on his back, his face next to Sherlock's hip. Sherlock had brought the case files into bed with him so he could be near John. "Sherlock?" He was looking up at him through the limited light the lamp provided. John gave a kiss to his hip which earned him a distracted hum. Sherlock's knees were drawn to his chest to support the files, the cover draped over him. John stroked his foot - the only part of him he could reach without straining - then placed another kiss on his hip. "Sherlock, are you going to sleep tonight?" 

It seemed as if John had finally got through to Sherlock. The files were placed on the table and Sherlock shifted so he was face to face with John. "Sorry, John. It's this case, I know I'm missing something." John gives him a kiss, his hand finding Sherlock's under the covers. "I know, love. There's something off. And I know what you're like for a puzzle. You need to sleep though, and eat for that matter, but first sleep." John turns in the bed so he's on his right side. He had already taken his pain medication, but he still couldn't put too much pressure on the left. Sherlock shifted closer. Their legs wrapping together and their foreheads pressed. John fell asleep there. In the warmth of Sherlock's embrace. 

* * *

It had been a gruelling few days since the last death. The killer seemed to just... Stop. Went completely off the radar. It was driving Sherlock crazy. The living room had been covered in documents. Red lines crossing through the room, connecting the separate crimes scenes. Clearly showing the links between them. 

John was sitting on his chair reading one of Sherlock's books. He had picked it up from the bookcase, desperate to have a break from the case. Sherlock on the other hand, was lying on the floor facing the ceiling. He had found a tennis ball and was throwing it up and catching it. John was enjoying the momentary quiet it provided. The ball landed on John's lap. He looked up from the book to see the grinning detective on the floor. John threw the ball back. They started playing a game of catch, smiles radiating from them. John's aim was slightly off - having to use his non-dominant hand to play. 

This was how Greg found them. Playing catch and giggling like small children. "Alright, Greg?" John sat up a bit more at the sight of him and Sherlock looked up from his place on the floor. Greg ducked under the strings and stepped into the room. "We've got a murder. No, not him, but murder nonetheless. Coming? I'll give you a lift." Sherlock had sprung from his position on the floor. Gliding past Greg and the strings, he grabbed his coat. John looked up at him and saw him holding out his jacket. "Come on, John. Murder! We don't have all day." John stood and followed them out. Taking his jacket and cane from Sherlock's hands. 

* * *

They were once again stood outside.  _ What is it with people killing outside? Seriously, it's winter. At least go somewhere with heating.  _ Sherlock looked over at John, he strode back to his side and wrapped his scarf around John's neck. He turned up his collar and went back to the body.  _ That man. _ John stepped forward. If he was there, he might as well help. Sherlock moved to the side slightly to allow John to join him on the floor. Leaning heavily on his cane, John lowered himself to the floor. Greg took his cane as he went to place it beside him on the floor, "Thanks." 

(***)

John took a close look at the young man. He had severe bruising. Obvious signs of abuse before his death. His clothes had slight tears in them. His trousers had been unbuttoned and his shirt had ridden up to reveal his midriff. His once pale white skin had been littered black and blue. Finger prints, burned into his skin. It made John feel sick. All the markings on the body had been made by hand - well and a knife, obviously. If they were lucky they could get some DNA from a thorough search. His lips had been badly bitten. The skin pierced, although, it looked self inflicted. With each new discovery John felt more sick. He turned his attention to the knife wounds. They were scattered over his body. John could see the order. His finger hovering over the wounds, he pointed at each in order. Finally, landing on the slash across the man's neck. It was a mess. 

(***)

Something didn't sit right. Deep in his gut. He reached for his cane and stood again. Looking down at the body. His eyes narrowing in concentration. Sherlock looked up at him. John's eyes flicked towards his, Sherlock stood and came to stand at John's side.  _ Something. Something. What is it?  _ He turned to look around the surrounding area. "John? What is it?" He could hear Sherlock's voice, but he paid it no mind.  _ Hiding. Something is hidden. Or is it? I don't know. Do I? _ He saw the onlookers. The crowd that always seems to form at the slightest mention of a murder.  _ There. _

A man in a hoodie stood slightly separated from the rest of the crowd. His hands shoved deep in the pockets of his hoodie. His face was covered by the hood. John couldn't see who he was, but it was him. The same man from the last scene. He turns back to Sherlock. Their eyes met, the questions he had of the unknown man slipped from his mind. It fell into place. "It's the same killer. The stabbings, the pattern. It's not a lot, but it's the same method. Just a different weapon. He was more merciful with him. The others, he left. This one, he stayed." He looked at Sherlock. Hoping he was right. 

Sherlock spun on his heels, his hands raising in the air and clasping as he paced, "Oh! John! You're a genius! How could I be so blind?" He grabbed John's face and kissed his forehead. He swept past and spoke at lightning speed at Greg. John watched him, a warmth spreading through his chest, but also a sting running through his shoulder. He ignored it and carried on looking at his boyfriend. He was in his element. Sherlock turned to face John. His nose and cheeks had a pink tinge from the cold. Puffs of air could be seen passing his radiant grin. Then it stopped. His face dropping like a stone. Sherlock turns back to Greg and says, "We're going home. John's shoulder hurts and he wont tell me. He thinks I don't know." He sent a knowing smile over his shoulder and John huffed at his ridiculous man.  _ How can he always tell what's on my mind? _

* * *

On the way to the flat, Sherlock and John stopped off to grab some take-away. They sat on the sofa together eating the food. The case files covering the coffee table as they ate off their laps. Neither man put off their food from the bloodied pictures. "Sherlock? Pass that one." John pointed to a picture that was at the other end of the table. Sherlock passed it and took another bite of his food.  _ Something. _ In the background was the man. 

"Sherlock?" He gave a hum over his food and turned to face John. "When was this one?" Sherlock placed his plate on top of the other images and took the picture from John. "This was the second killing. Why?" John places his plate next to Sherlock's and leans closer. Pointing to the hooded man, "That man has been at the last two scenes. Just watching us." Sherlock hands the picture to John and begins looking through all the images they have. In the background of each scene stood the same man. Off somewhere in the distance. Sherlock took out his phone and took a picture of the man in each one. He sent off a text to Lestrade with the images. 

**Find out who this is. -SH**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I get distracted very easily. So while I knew exactly what I was writing next, it still took me until 3am to post.   
> Hope you liked it!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure you know the drill by now. I have marked any blood/death with (***) You can skip it or read it. Up to you.   
> This is the penultimate chapter. I really hope you enjoy. I will be posting at the same time as the final chapter.

**Find out who this is. -SH**

Greg was sitting in his office when the message came through. "DONAVAN!" The woman appeared in his doorway in a matter of seconds. It still amazed him how he had that power. He found out the right pictures Sherlock had sent him and thrust them towards her. "That man shows up at every scene. We need to find out who he is." She takes the images and looks at the hooded man in the background. "Sure thing, boss." Greg is left alone in his office once again.  _ It's going to be a late one.  _

They spend hours trying to get a match to the man's face. The images weren't clear enough. His eyes were burning from staring at the computer screen. He had hardly slept the night before. He looks over at his team, they're all falling asleep at their desks. Greg stands and stretches the kinks out of his back. Stifling a yawn, he opens his door, "Go home. We'll keep looking, just go home and rest." He's never seen his team move so fast. Chuckling to himself, he collects his coat and leaves for home. 

When he gets home a plate is resting on the table. As he passes he takes some chips from the plate and fills his mouth. Moving around and putting away his things. More chips falling into his mouth as he potters about. He walks through to the bedroom to see Mycroft already in bed with a book. Greg hadn't realised how late it had gotten. He dropped his clothes to the floor and collapsed next to Mycroft. He mumbled some words into the bedding that sounded distantly like, "Love you" before his soft snores filled the room. Mycroft put down his book and helped the sleeping Greg into bed. 

* * *

Mycroft and Greg had the next day off and both were thankful for that. Lately, they have been rushed off their feet at work. Greg had crashed the night before and Mycroft did too after a bit more reading. They slept well into the morning. They probably would have carried on sleeping if it wasn't for the screeching coming from Greg's suit jacket on the floor. Greg scrambled across Mycroft's legs to reach it, much to his protest. 

"Lestrade." He grumbled into the phone. Trying to sound more awake than he was. 

"Boss. We've got another one. Hasn't been long." The sound of Donovan's voice was not something Greg wanted to hear first thing after waking up. 

"Text me the address." And with that he hung up. He was still draped over Mycroft's legs. The phone in his hand dropped towards the floor as he tried to wake up. He felt a hand running through his hair, "Who was that?" Greg turned his head to look at his boyfriend. Taking a deep breath, he heaves himself up to his own side of the bed. "Another death," he looks at the time on his phone. "Middle of the day. He's a cocky bastard. I've got to go." They share a kiss and then Greg is off. Climbing out of bed and stumbling to his wardrobe. Deciding to grab something on the way in, he chucks the left over dinner and grabs his keys. 

* * *

On his way, he calls Sherlock. Telling him what he knows. Which is not much, really. Greg arrives at the scene. He had stopped off at Greggs on the way and as he climbed out the car, stuffed the last of his sausage roll into his mouth. Cleaning himself from the flakes, he spots Sherlock holding a cab door open for John.  _ Perfect timing.  _ He walked over to where his team was waiting. 

* * *

Sherlock paid the cabbie then hopped out to hold the door for John. They had been out at Angelo's when Lestrade called. Both of them jumped up and ran from the restaurant, desperate to catch the killer. Hoping he would be stood on the sidelines. Praying it was actually the killer and not just some random man. They pulled up just after Lestrade had. They made their way to the body. 

"Freak." Sherlock took a deep breath and kept walking. Holding his head high as his armour came up. Pushing away all thoughts of Donovan.  _ Focus on the killer.  _ Donovan follows them towards the body. Not saying anything, but Sherlock knew it wouldn't be all. She always adds something else eventually. Sherlock starts circling the area. John stands on the side, watching him with a stupid smile on his face. Sherlock loved it. Donovan chose then. She chose that moment to carry on her verbal assault. Sherlock tried to focus on the body. "He's a freak. Complete psychopath. Wouldn't be surprised if he did this just to get off." Sherlock leaned in closer to the body to hide his mask slipping. 

"Who the fuck, do you think you are?" The booming voice of John Watson carried through the open space. Sherlock's head whipped towards the man. So did everyone else's for that matter. Donovan stood next to the bristling doctor, mouth hanging open. John's arms were crossed, he stood tall, shoulders broad as he stood facing her. John's jaw was set. The captain Sherlock had hardly had the pleasure to see, on full display. "You talk about him as if he's not there. As if he can't hear you. Same goes for the weasel," He points towards Anderson in the distance. Making sure everyone knows. "He does not use this to 'get off' as you so elegantly put it. I can assure you, he doesn't need that. He is the best man I have ever met. He is selfless and caring. He helped me save the lives of countless people. Saved the lives of several children and provided food for my nurses. Now he is here. Doing your job. For what? All he gets from this is shit from you. Talk about my boyfriend like that again, and I'll treat you like one of my soldiers. I don't care that you're a sergeant and I'm a civilian." 

He turned away from Donovan, arms still crossed. He looked into the beet red face of Sherlock and gave him a reassuring nod and a small smile. The scene was silent. Sherlock gives a smile back. His chest puffing slightly at John's praise. "The hooded man is over there. Are you going to do your job today?" John says this quietly. Eyes still on Sherlock. Tone directed at Donovan. She stutters as she tries to reply before looking at John and scurrying away. John looks over the body from his position. Sherlock looks back down at the body, trying to hide his smile. 

(***)

Sherlock gives a final look over the body before moving to stand next to John. "They used a hammer to begin with. Messy. They haven't been here long. It's midday, how did they not attract attention? The final blow obviously came from the sliced throat, but why use the hammer, when they had a knife? The clothes are torn. So we can assume sexual gratification." Sherlock's brow was furrowed. He looked towards John.  _ I don't get it. _ John takes a deep breath, looks towards Sherlock then back down at the body before speaking, "They wouldn't need the knife. There's a broken nail, but that's it. They didn't fight much. Probably used the hammer to make it easier. More of a risk of getting caught so…" He takes a deep breath. Sherlock could see him thinking, could hear the thoughts running through John's mind. He turned back to Sherlock then spoke to him, rather than the body. "So, he needed them quiet. Knock them out with the hammer. Maybe a few more beatings because he's a sick fuck. Have his way," He leant down and pulled the shirt up slightly then the trousers down a little. He put them back in place before standing again, removing his glove. "There's blood on the clothes. Hardly any underneath. He had his way, they woke, he cut the throat. Then I guess he buggered off." 

(***)

Both men looked at each other. Happy of the deductions made, but sickened by the context. Sherlock was starting to regret eating. Just as he was about to say something about John's deductions - and John was about to mention Sherlock's - Lestrade strode over. "The hooded guy. Name, Joseph Hewitt. Says he has a mate who has a radio. They listen to police scanners. He's fascinated by coppers so shows up wherever he can. We're keeping an eye on him. Told him to take his hood off too." 

John stood and gave Lestrade everything they had from their rounds of deductions. Sherlock was staring at the man.  _ It was him. Hair slicked to the side. Toothbrush moustache. Mid thirties. Suit and tie, hidden by the hoodie. Tall-ish and built. The man from the alley.  _ The unknown man  _ Joseph _ was looking at him. Just like that day from the alley. A chill ran through Sherlock's entire body. He clasped John's hand and began to pull him away. 

"Sherlock! I was talking." John pulls his hand to stop Sherlock. He steps close and lowers his voice, "What's wrong?" Sherlock looks around at the officers before looking down at John. His voice quiet as he spoke, "You didn't notice. You left your cane at Angelo's we sho-" John cut him off, holding his hand up, not saying a word. Sherlock gave in. "I almost relapsed. While you were gone. I didn't. I got close. I almost bought from him." He nods his head to Joseph. His eyes were still on Sherlock. Watching him from the sidelines. John takes Sherlock's hands again as Sherlock speaks again, "Can we go home?" John pulls him towards the main road, looking for a cab to take them home. 

In the back of the cab, John turns to Sherlock. "I did notice. Noticed when I went off on one at Donovan. Hard to cross your arms and look intimidating with a cane in your hand. Just thought I'd say 'thank you' properly at home." 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW marked as (***) you can skip if you want.   
> This is the last chapter in the series. I had to end it somewhere. I hope you like it.   
> Please let me know if you think I should edit anything. Especially tags/rating. I'm not too sure what to tag my works as yet. So it would be greatly appreciated. Enjoy!!

They had kept an eye on Joseph. Tracking what he did, where he went. They didn't have enough to pull him in. All they had was that he was a creep that liked to see crime scenes. Even with the surveillance, the killer continued. Each death was horrific. John and Sherlock had shown up to a few, but others they just gave a miss. Tension was running high through Lestrade's team. John hadn't even introduced himself properly and he had already threatened them. Not to mention the man could give them nightmares. Sherlock had a nightmare - that night, after he recognised the hooded man. He dreamt he had relapsed and John left him. They held each other through the night. John stroked Sherlock's hair as he cried. Sherlock couldn't be near the man for too long. It didn't sit right with him. The man would always watch Sherlock.  _ Did he recognise him from the alley?  _ The killings happened at any point in the day. There was no pattern. He just killed when the mood struck, it seemed. John didn't even need his cane anymore. His pain medication was hardly used. Only when they went outside. Apart from London being scared of some random killer, everything seemed normal. Nothing could be taken from the crime scenes. They were all the same methods, just different instruments. 

It was less than a week until Christmas. It didn't really feel like it. Mrs Hudson had put a small tree on their table. They had a few cards which sat on the mantle. The gifts they brought were from online. Next day delivery. Saves time and effort. Although, they shared gifts. One to Mycroft and Greg from the both of them, one to Harry from the both of them, and one to Mrs Hudson from the both of them. Then one each. All sloppily wrapped and scattered somewhere near the tabletop tree. Everyone was invited to Christmas dinner. If they wanted it, that was. John even got a message from Bill and Sami. He was sitting on the sofa with Sherlock when it came through.

"I didn't know you sent me another care package." Sherlock looked up at him and gave a sheepish smile. "I sent it early so it would arrive for Christmas." John leant towards Sherlock and kissed him deeply. "I love you. It's just arrived at base. Sami and Bill just told me." Sherlock looked at the message in John's hand then took the phone, 

**You can keep it. I sent plenty to share. I've got something better. Although, I did send a letter with pictures. So, unless you want pictures of John and I, just throw it. Happy Christmas - SH**

* * *

It was Christmas eve and the boys had been making cookies. Mrs Hudson had given them an easy recipe to follow and even the ingredients. She said it was tradition or something. Sherlock wasn't listening. He was just glad to be with John. So far, there hadn't been a single murder in almost three days. John had exclaimed, "Told you, even crazy killers need a quiet holiday at home." The day had been perfect. The smell of cookies filled the flat. John had to keep batting Sherlock's hands away. In the end, he proposed they go for a walk. 

They walked together without direction. Just wherever their feet took them. John had taken his pain medication and Sherlock had bundled them up to fight off the winter chill. They walked with their hands clasped and their noses pink. They laughed about nothing as they walked through the empty London streets. Sherlock thought about turning back when he noticed where they had ended up. He was back where he first saw the hooded man.  _ That, Joseph _ . He kept walking. Holding tighter to John's hand. If John noticed, he didn't comment. 

They were on the opposite side this time. The side he had seen the man. He no longer had the safety of a road between them, but he did have John. That made him feel a little bit better. It was a happy time. They had spent a great day together,  _ don't let your past ruin the moment _ . Sherlock felt his body tense with each step towards the alley opening they took. John was still talking about something. Sherlock was half-listening. Their hands tight between them. Sherlock kept his eyes forward as they neared the alley. Determined not to make a deal of it. _ Just keep looking forward and everything will be fine. _ As they passed, a gruff voice could be heard from the alley, "Hello, Sherlock." 

(***) 

They stopped in their tracks. Fight or flight instincts kicking in. For Sherlock, it was flight. John held tighter to his hand as he turned to peer into the alley. There, sitting on the floor was Joseph Hewitt. His legs crossed, head cocked, hands resting in his lap. He looked like the picture of innocence if it wasn't for all the blood that covered him and the two dead bodies to his side. Sherlock fumbled for his phone, eyes fixed on the man. His blood ran cold. The bodies hadn't just been killed, they had been slaughtered. The tools resting beside him. The scissors, the hammer, the knife - all painted red. The shine glistening in the low light. He didn't move. He just sat. Watching them with his unblinking, dead eyes. John had taken the fighter position just in case. Sherlock's fingers were stabbing at his phone. He still had his hand clasped firmly in John's. He sent Lestrade a text. He wasn't sure what. Something about finding the killer he hoped. Mycroft would send location. Joseph looked up at them, "Would you like to see how I did it? It was easy. I can show you if you like." No one moved. All fixed to the spot. Joseph broke the stillness eventually, prompting John to shift slightly and tighten his grip on Sherlock further. "Oh, I won't hurt him." Hewitt said as he reached towards the closest body. The neck had been slit, like the others. His hand ran along the cut, blood covering his hand. He brought his hand up to the light and inspected it. He looked away from the bloodsoaked hand and turned to look straight into Sherlock's eyes. Without breaking eye contact, his tongue swept over his hand. Licking off all the blood. John and Sherlock watched on in horror. Transfixed. He bent down to collect some more. Repeating the process. 

(***)

Distantly, they heard the sirens. Then the sounds of cars pulling up behind. Orders sounding over the sound of bodies moving. Lestrade's curse as he steps beside them. Mycroft's voice in the distance. The sound of Joseph's laugh. Mycroft throwing up. Police chatter on the radio. Then it all went silent. Sherlock could finally tear his eyes away. John had wrapped him in a hug. All sound gone. Sherlock was only left with the mantra that escaped John's lips, "It's okay. We're fine." 

Sherlock doesn't know how he got home. He doesn't know why he's on the sofa, curled into John's lap. He doesn't know why Mycroft and Lestrade are sitting across from him. He turns on the sofa and buries his face in John's stomach.  _ Need to process.  _

It must have taken him longer than expected to process. It was pitch black in the room. His face was still pressed into John's jumper clad stomach. Familiar fingers carding through his hair. The sound of a film on in the background. Sherlock sat up to look John in the face. "Hey," John's voice was soft, his hand moving to hold Sherlock. "You okay?" Sherlock looked at him for a few moments, then he nodded. He stood and held his hand out for John to take. They climbed into bed, wrapping around each other in the dark. "That's the alley I saw him for the first time." Nothing more was said. Nothing needed to be said. 

* * *

They had slept in the next day. Not like it mattered. Greg probably wouldn't be able to get away from the yard for quite some time. Harry would never have shown up. Mycroft and Mrs Hudson just let themselves in and go about their business. They had decided on a quiet day. John had told Mycroft the day before. Said it would be for the best. For everyone. Apparently he had arranged for new years. 

"Can I give you your present in bed?" Sherlock asked as he looked up at the amused smile on John's face. "Of course you can love. As long as I can give mine." With that, Sherlock sprung from the bed. He ran through to the small tree and ran back, pressing his cold toes to John's warm skin as he climbed back in bed. They both had brought similar sized presents. Sherlock handed John a box with wrapping paper falling off and taped within an inch of its life. A messily scrawled  _ John _ spread across the small sticker on top. Sherlock held in his hand a perfectly wrapped gift. The edges crisp and the paper straight.  _ Sherlock _ resting on top in John's handwriting. 

They both ripped open the gifts like excited children. Identical black velvet boxes hidden underneath. Both men struggled to breathe. Lifting the lids to find a ring each. John reached forward and took the box from Sherlock's grasp, thrusting the other box into his now empty hands. "Is that a yes?" John's voice cracked as he spoke. Tears falling from their eyes. "I might have to think about it." Sherlock wiped a tear and tried to laugh at his terrible attempt at humour. He opened his mouth to speak again, only to find his words had been replaced with tear filled chokes. He settled for a firm nod of his head and reached for John's hand. 

They would announce the news to their makeshift family during the new year's festivities. Right now, they hold onto each other. Sharing kisses with their new Fiancé. 


End file.
